A past reviving gall lifts up a long skirt: romance climbs legs of blurry connection.
We attend a funeral separately,
and meet at the after party, tears aflame with laughter, dancing
in the fallout of never more. On a bar’s deck,
drenched with exerted loneliness, we tease insanity
as sanity drizzles. Against us,
a lake of the unpredictable rushes daydream-currents.
“I’ll jump, you know,” she threatens, smiling.
“Not on my watch.”
“I’ll protect you.”
A storm ruffles my safe house, thrusting the door open: electricity tangles discomfort.
Uncertainty magnetizes the floor, ratting my roof of
solitary dreaming, caving in, and exposure soaring.
Nervousness collapses; she sits cross-legged, a wilderness of impulse expanding.
waiting for me to get the check. She grafts herself to my arm on a
slivering under our feet.
Over our (traffic zipping, zipping) walking embrace (Traffic zipping, zipping)
traffic lights flash (flash).
A fork: shotgun bliss or passion in dribs and drabs.
We walk on the sidewalk’s edge, traffic a breath away, and scurry across chanciness.
On the other side,
she tells me of a future city, “Will it flourish, crumble or…never be?”
“I’ll build a house there.”
We rub insecurity together, sparking a faint glow outside an abandoned church. A nun
snubs it out before an explosion
Wish I told her how I doubt my future city. I told of a great economy,
dazzling lights, and tall buildings.
I never told her of the boy who sits in a tub on a nameless dirt road awaiting pavement.
Steven Leonardo Clifford is a Long Island native. He has schizoaffective disorder from which he draws his inspiration.